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Sacred Mornings
A poem on slow moments at home
It’s an acoustic guitar with a raspy voice,
echoing through my dwelling —
wrapping the furniture in a gentle lullaby,
softly stirring this space awake.
Small water droplets join each other —
gravity drawing them
into circular communion
on my coffee table,
kissing it gently,
washing it clean.
Freshly washed cotton drapes my skin,
holding the morning close —
like a parent cradling a child
before sending them off into the world.
Surrounded by sacred slumber.
My eyes are the only ones
blinking awake,
gifted with the hush
and hope of morning.
The potted pilea and pothos
turn toward the window,
worshipping the golden light,
spilling in to whisper:
I’ve missed you.
And I realize —
as long as these sacred moments remain,
I am always home —
and home goes with me.
